Until this moment she’d have said she wasn’t a fan of body art—personally, she preferred her art on walls or in gardens—but Travis’s tattoos changed her opinion. And that was bad, because with her divorce only recently official, the last thing she wanted in her life was another man who thought he could walk all over her.
Chapter 2
“Where in Australia are you from?” Travis’s question jolted Billie’s dangerous thoughts, and she startled slightly and stepped on Baxter’s paw.
The dog yelped, so she reached down and scooped him up. Holding him against her chest was comforting and also helped to masquerade the fact that her treacherous nipples were pointing through her cotton T-shirt, literally begging him to gape at them. What was with that? He’d been nothing but unpleasant since he stepped into the gallery and yet she couldn’t stop staring at him.
“Umm…” Where am I from again? Finally, after an embarrassing pause, she remembered. “Perth, in Western Australia.”
Technically she’d lived most of her life in Claremont, a well-to-do suburb not far from the city, but she figured Perth was close enough and he might actually have heard of it.
“Long way from home,” he drawled, and it kind of sounded like an insult.
She hugged Baxter closely. “Home is New Orleans now.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You actually like this shit hole?”
She nodded once slowly, growing increasingly annoyed. He might be hot, but his attitude sucked. “Uh, affirmative. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“What do you find so appealing?” He crossed his arms over his broad chest, hugging the seat as he stared at her.
“You mean aside from the beignets?”
She’d fallen in love with the vibrant city years ago when they’d watched a documentary about it in school. The art and music, the bohemian way of life had appealed to her, and visiting the French Quarter had been on her bucket list ever since. When she’d finally come here it had felt more like home than anywhere she ever had been before, and so she’d stayed, but she got the feeling Mr. Smug Leather Jacket wouldn’t understand any of that.
Yet, when he didn’t reply, she couldn’t help herself. “Let’s see, there’s the history, the food, the cemeteries, the art, the people, the cultural diversity, the plantations, the funky shops, the Tabasco sauce, the Mardi Gras, the ghosts…”
Baxter squirmed in her arms.
Travis finally spoke, nodding toward her pup. “I think you’re even boring the mutt.”
Heaving a breath in irritation, Billie plopped Baxter down on the ground and he trotted out into the courtyard, no doubt to slink off to his favorite afternoon nap spot under the piano. He’d obviously decided Travis wasn’t a threat. Personally she wasn’t so sure—she didn’t like the way her body seemed to be in direct opposition to her head where he was concerned.
“So if you hate this place so much, why are you even here?” she asked.
He half-chuckled and hit her with a look she couldn’t decipher. “Trust me, I don’t plan on staying for long.”
“Good,” she snapped before she could think better of it.
“For me, yes. But maybe not for you. Because when I sell this dump to the highest bidder, you won’t have a place to lay your pretty head at night or anywhere to hang your precious art, which, by the looks of it, makes me think I’m doing you a favor.”
His words were like a dagger twisting in her heart; she had no reply, but she bit down on her lower lip to stop it quivering. Maybe she really did need to see a lawyer; surely the lease she’d had with Mr. Lombard meant something. And Sophie. Billie needed to check her facts before she started letting Travis Sinclair get under her skin.
She shrugged, pretending his words didn’t affect her in the slightest, pretending this building, its contents and all it stood for didn’t mean the world to her. “I can sleep almost anywhere, and this isn’t my art, I merely sell it.”
He raised that dark, sinister brow again and his lips twisted up at the edges. Man, they were hot. His whole damn face was a work of art. “You make much money?” he asked.
Money! That thought extinguished the sexy one. She wanted to scream that money didn’t make the world go round, that there were more important things in life than wealth and how many zeroes were on your bank balance, but she summoned everything she had to shrug instead. “Enough. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got to get back out there.”
“I don’t mind at all. Far be it from me to keep you from your important business.” And he unfolded his arms and glared down at his computer screen. What was he doing? She itched to ask him or to peer over his shoulder at the screen, but there were two problems with that.
One, she didn’t want him to think she was interested. And two, she couldn’t risk getting up close and personal with him again. When he’d leaned into her earlier, they’d been so close she could smell the coffee on his breath and count the stubble on his jaw. Not that she’d had the wherewithal to do the latter, because being that close to him had hindered her ability to think straight.
Yep, distance was definitely required. She forced herself to take a step toward the door and then paused. “I’d tell you to make yourself at home, but if you’re going to sell the place, there’s no point.”
And with that she flounced out into the courtyard and took a deep breath the moment she was far enough away that he couldn’t hear. Although he’d unsettled her, she didn’t want to give him any indication of this fact. As wild animals can smell your fear, she guessed Travis Sinclair would only get worse if he knew the effect he had on her. Trying to forget that he was making himself at home in her kitchen, Billie trekked across the courtyard and down the little alley to open the gallery again.
She pushed back the iron gate, secured it against the wall and looked out onto Bourbon Street. It was late afternoon on Thursday and the tourists were already filling the streets, their happy laughter drifting toward her as they chugged down bright-colored cocktails in plastic tumblers. Baxter awoke and tottered out after her, collapsing on a spot on the pavement just outside the gallery. She smiled, soaking in the ambience that generally relaxed her. There was no place on earth like the French Quarter, where folks from all walks of life came together and drank alcohol on the pavement (or sidewalk, as the locals called it). She loved that there were strip clubs and tattoo parlors right next to a swanky restaurant or jazz bar, and then farther along, a shop selling voodoo. Bands play music right in the middle of the street, and fortune-tellers and artists alike set up alongside each other in Jackson Square. Her favorite thing in the world was strolling through the streets, and it never ceased to amaze her what she’d find. No matter how many times she walked along Royal Street or down Chartres, she always found a new boutique or another café to try. There was something magical about the place, and sometimes she swore that the shops changed on a daily basis.
An elderly couple walking past—the woman wearing Mardi Gras beads—stopped, both of them stooping down to scratch Baxter behind the ears. He rolled over onto his back and stuck his legs up in the air, demanding a belly rub.
Billie smiled at the couple. “He’s such a tart.” She hoped she and Baxter could lure them into the gallery; she hoped maybe other wanderers would see them enter and follow. Travis would see the crowds and realize her gallery wasn’t something to snicker at.
“He’s adorable,” replied the woman. She had some kind of European accent, but before Billie could ask them where they were from, the couple waved and walked past, on up the cracked pavement